


Chosen

by dramamelon



Series: Tasked [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, End of the World, Handwavy Science, M/M, Mech Preg, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Secret Children, Self-Indulgent, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Sparkling Twins, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Super Cute Sparklings, Swords & Sorcery, Tags to be Updated as Necessary!, Transformer Sparklings, epic fantasy, playing fast and loose here everybody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramamelon/pseuds/dramamelon
Summary: Chosen from the Autobot ranks by the Prime himself and Anointed by the Powers of the Guiding Hand, the Eight were Tasked: find and return the missing Relics of the Five to Iacon before the passing of thirteen vorns, before the Chaos Bringer and his Horde broke from their Shadow World prison.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a very silly generator post by ntldr over on tumblr a while back. It grew into a (still in progress) monster.

Primus, the Life-giver.

Epistemus, embodiment of Knowledge.

Solumus, embodiment of Wisdom.

Adaptus, embodiment of Change.

Mortilus, the Death-bringer.

Five born of One, deities of Cybertron, the Guiding Hand. The Split occurred in the aftermath of battle against their greatest enemy—Unicron, the Chaos Bringer. The One triumphed, sending Unicron into an abyss, locking him and those that followed him into a place where they could do no harm unto the young Cybertronian peoples. The use of so much power, however, fractured the One into five equal parts, each finding their place in the fabric of the world they watched over.

They spoke through their priests, called the Powers, bestowing on their children the Histories of Cybertron. Among these tales was included warning of the eventual escape of the Enemy, for the lock on the Shadow World could not hold forever.

In the way of things, though, Cybertron grew and advanced over the long passage of time. It came to be that most people of Cybertron, distant descendants of those early believers, considered the stories just that: stories and nothing more.

The technology of the Cybertronian people became their pride, raising great numbers of their populace—though not all—to positions of comfort and leisure. Along with those left behind by the wheels of progress, there were those that simply did not fit into the evolving mold of the world. They kept themselves apart, finding their own way through the trials of life. Under their careful watch, old knowledge and old skills were kept alive and maintained, though the rest of the world scoffed and proclaimed those things would never be needed again. The outsiders were ignored as life in the wide and burgeoning affairs of the rising galactic power that was Cybertron moved onward. The old things were forgotten, left to those odd few that would not turn from them.

As the fated time drew nearer, however, things began to change across the whole of the planet. It was small things at first, easily ignored or the blame laid elsewhere, but as dark things unfettered are wont to do, the small things grew into bigger things.

Odd shadows skulked in the corners, harmless but terrifying to those unlucky enough to see them. They stopped speaking of encounters when none believed their words. When encounters turned to disappearances, those were shrugged away again by all but the grieving families of the missing. Monsters lived only in stories, after all. No one faulted the writers and artists that turned the whispered details of those families into entertainment for the masses.

When the weather changed, storms growing more fierce and destructive with each passing season, those that saw evil tidings in the winds were laughed into silence. The storms continued to rage, though, ending more than one small settlement too distant from the larger cities to call for help in time. Most losses still went unnoticed by the world at large.

Doled out next, in slow but overwhelming succession, came the plagues. Scraplets. Insecticons. Strangely bent creatures none had names for yet. Many compensated for this by moving into the cities, leaving only a small number of holdouts in the open lands. Those regarded as religious fanatics—the maintainers of the old ways—started to cry out that the end of the world drew close as foretold in the Histories, but were ignored.

It was when the gray and mutilated corpses of the long missing began appearing at the edges of the cities and clouds of black smoke rose in the distance that the walls were built. Closing themselves off from the increasingly dire straits of the less tamed world, the cities sought to protect those they could. The cries of the fanatics continued, louder than ever, still unheeded.

Rampant Cosmic Rust swept through the cities, decimating the remaining population of the planet before the sickness could be brought to heel. It was followed swiftly by a more dire portent than ever before as the world’s energon began to sour. Across the whole of Cybertron, not a known source went unaffected by whatever blight had fallen upon them. Scientists raced to discover a way to reverse the problem, finding instead only a way to filter out the impurities that touched the flows. The reservoirs and rivers of the Cybertronian lifeblood became places avoided by all but those charged with maintaining the integrity of the filtering stations.

Among the citizens, disagreements escalated to arguments and skirmishes between once mostly friendly city turned to outright warfare over access to the filtered lines. No longer did Cybertron play a part in offworld politics, the citizens of the world grounded as the spreading flood of changes took interplanetary travel beyond their capabilities. More of the people sought solace in the Histories, searching out those that knew the old ways in their fear of the failing world around them. Leaders were toppled and replaced. Despair became a constant lived by all while hope was a small and flickering flame but a breath from extinguishing.

Deep within the unlit and oxidizing bowels of the planet, the door to the Shadow World shuddered and an infinitesimal crack appeared on the surface of the lock. The clock on the doom of the Cybertronian people continued to tick ever downward.


	2. Chapter One

The world flashed by in streaks of color, rust red and brushed steel and others he could not hope to give names for he was no artist. A long cloud of dust rose in his wake, reminiscent of untidy organic worlds. Once neatly defined and precisely cared for roadways had long since fallen into disrepair, presenting a constantly changing crumble of age. Only the specialized processors in Blurr’s brain module allowed him to parse the obstacles in his path quickly enough to avoid them rather than end up a tumble of flailing limbs and dents. Cybertron was not the place of his youth and Blurr mourned the loss—and he was not even old enough to remember the before time. He could not imagine what it was like for the true elders, like Kup.

He was almost home now, halfway back to Iacon with the sun only just reaching midday in a washed out yellow sky. Soon, no more than a few joors, he would call for the gates to open and skid to a long, sliding halt before Prowl and inform the Autobot Second of another mission completed. The information was delivered and the Decepticons already sought their own answer. It was a shame the old communications system failed so many vorns ago. As much as Blurr enjoyed putting his speed to use, dodging the creatures and fallen structures that now dominated most of Cybertron were something he would much rather do without. Of course, recent expeditions to the Decepticon city of Kaon had been a bit more diverting than his earliest runs. He relished the thought of reliving a few in his dreams once he collapsed onto his berth at the end of this one.

A brilliant and blinding flash of violet light to his left and a loud pop of contracting air threw him off balance, sending him screeching to a wide-opticked stop well off the remains of the highway. Blurr twisted around, crouched low and ready to take on whatever new and misshapen mechanimal sought to attack him. Optics narrowed on the target, he frowned, then scowled and dropped his readiness to pounce or run.

In the dust raised by Blurr’s pedes, swirling around them both in a desolate breeze wafting across the dilapidated outskirts of an old farming town, stood a tall and familiar figure. Frame painted up in black and purple, optics blazing red, and sleek wings fluttering with self-assured humor, the flyer gave Blurr a crooked grin and held up a mini datapad for him to see. “You forgot something.”

“Skywarp, you aft!” Blurr shouted at him, shaking his hands in the air with the strength of his annoyance at the Decepticon flyer. “I thought you were one of the Things. Don’t do that to me!”

“Why would you think that?” Skywarp asked, looking smug and curious as he slowly walked closer. His flipped the datapad between his fingers, a feisty smirk turning up one corner of his mouth. “And why would you do something like this? I mean, it’s kind of a fancy item to be leaving lying around somewhere like you did. You know, in another mech’s personal hab. On the nightstand?”

“Did you stop to think _maybe_ I left it there on purpose?” Blurr asked, crossing his arms and tapping one pede, a hip cocked out to one side. If Skywarp stopped his usual idiocy and read the frame language Blurr had been sending him, Blurr would probably start leaving a whole lot more in Skywarp’s hab and invite Skywarp to reciprocate. “Like maybe I had a reason behind it?”

That cocky smirk stretched into a knowing smile, warm and inviting. The datapad disappeared into a subspace pocket and Skywarp stopped right in front of Blurr, gazing down into his optics. Blurr felt that distinct warmth in his spark that always flared up when the flyer looked at him like that. “I figured there was a reason for it,” Skywarp said, hooking a curled finger under Blurr’s chin and tilting his helm back just a bit more—Blurr always had liked a good height difference and Skywarp decidedly towered over him. “Just thought maybe I’d make sure I wasn’t reading the situation wrong. Remember how much you hated me before we got all Deadlock and Wing?”

“Excuse you, that’s _Drift_ now,” Blurr corrected, giving into his own warm grin.

“Deadlock, Drift, whatever. He still got himself sparked up by an Autobot and deserted,” Skywarp replied, nasal ridge wrinkled in his amusement.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you wanted to be a carrier, Warp,” Blurr said in counter, getting a sputter from the flyer, but no denial. “I _am_ the Autobot in this picture, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see who gets sparked up.” Skywarp leaned in, mouth soft, and Blurr gentled into the motion. His optics shuttered, wanting nothing more in that moment than to feel the act again. A breath before lips touched, however, a yowling shriek rose from nearby. It was a grating sound, fractured as if processed through a broken vocalizer.

As one, they spun to see what might have been a cougaraider in a previous life, but was so twisted from its original form now as to be nearly unidentifiable. One of the Things. Neither chanced to look away from the slowly advancing slink of the creature. A thick tail of needled segments swung back and forth behind it, low to the ground and sweeping sharp lines in the dust. Claws extended from the front paws, each flex gouging into the ground with a sharp squeal. This last trip to Kaon had nearly ended in Blurr’s deactivation by way of Things lunging at him from dark crevasses along the way. It was not uncommon, unfortunately, but neither was it something he wished to repeat so quickly.

“Slag,” Skywarp cursed, reaching out a hand in Blurr’s direction, the motion decidedly protective. The wind picked up, flinging more dust into the air and carrying with it the low growl emitting from the creature. “Just the one, you think?”

Sinking back into his battle stance, Blurr shrugged and tossed a glance at Skywarp. “Hound once told me cougaraiders are known to be mostly solitary, but this isn’t really—”

More rumbling growls started up around them from several angles. The grate of pebbles grinding against the decaying highway had Blurr pivoting on his toes, putting himself back to back with Skywarp. The twisted forms of twenty once robofelines surrounded them from all sides, though they were still far enough out that gaps between them remained. Those gaps would not remain long, however.

“Do we fight or do we run?” Skywarp asked, dark wings flicking with anticipation. His preferred option, no doubt, lay in the former.

Blurr smirked and shook his helm. “We’ve got more important things to do than taking out a few ugly cats. Or, at least, I do.”

“Run it is, then,” Skywarp declared. He whirled around, the expanse of his wings carefully missing Blurr. One dark hand caught Blurr by the shoulder kibble and swung him around as well, putting them face to face again. “But not before I get this.”

Strong arms lifted Blurr off his pedes and wrapped tight around him as Skywarp folded him into a kiss that reached right into the depths of his spark. Blurr curled around his favorite flyer and sunk deeper, then found himself completely disoriented as a loud _vop!_ sounded and space warped around him. His brain module wobbled in his helm as Skywarp carefully set him down and held him upright. “You gonna be all right?”

Shaking away the dancing sparkles left behind from being subject to both Skywarp’s kiss and his sigma ability, Blurr nodded and steadied himself. “Yeah, I’m good. Don’t do that again without warning me first, though.”

“Deal,” Skywarp murmured against his audial. “See you around, then, sweetspark. Better make a run for it now, though. I didn’t take us far or I’d never make it back to Kaon on my current fuel reserves.”

Blurr perked as the growls and warning yips of the mutated cougaraiders registered in his hearing again, all from one direction now. They were indeed in the distance, but not so far away as to drop Blurr and Skywarp off their radar. The confusion would swiftly disappear and they would be on Blurr and Skywarp again if they did not get out of the area fast. “Idiot,” Blurr said, giving Skywarp a swat on the arm. “I could have gotten out of their circle without the help.”

Skywarp only grinned and shrugged.

“Get out of here,” Blurr told him, fighting the smiling response he wanted to give—Skywarp needed a stern hand at times and Blurr was not going to be an easy pushover. “And be safe.”

“Always.” He landed another peck, this time on Blurr’s cheek guard, then leapt into the air. His frame shifted into his airborne alt mode and circled before he vanished with another flash of violet and the distinctive sound of his warp drive at work. Blurr’s optics cycled wider as the cougaraiders suddenly made their move, dashing over the distance between them.

Spinning in the direction of Iacon, Blurr dipped low, put pede to ground, and poured on the speed for home.

 

* * *

 

Night was in full over the city of Iacon, not that many could tell from the unceasing glow of street lamps and neon signs. It was a waste of energy, but less so than it had been in the past, cut down from sheer necessity rather than desire on the part of the culprits. Optimus found himself reluctant to impose, not wanting to take away any more normalcy than his people had already given up. Some claimed him too lenient, but those were the ones he expected to keep him in line, anyway. In his private office, the only light was provided by a pair of small lamps set at either far corner of his large work desk. Heavy drapes covered the windows, giving the impression of a true dark cycle and the lamps reflected an amber glow off the rusty orange color of the walls, a soothing tone to stressed optics. Bent over the smooth and unobtrusive brushed copper finish of his desk, the Prime again poured over the information the Autobot head of research had handed over to him that morning.

“So, you’re telling me,” Optimus said, glaring at the datapad where it rested on his desk, “we’ve got a limited amount of time to find missing holy relics that might not even _exist_ and figure out how we use them to stop the destruction of Cybertron by way of mythological villain.” His hand pinched at his nasal bridge, optical ridges furrowing tight.

“I apologize that I don’t bring better news, Prime,” spoke the blocky scientist with blue and red plating standing on the other side of his desk. “Would that I could, but even I cannot fault the answers we’ve found, absurd as they might seem to a logical mind.”

Optimus vented a heavy sigh and shook his helm, looking up at Perceptor as he dropped his hand from his face. “And this is the very same reason behind the rest of the troubles of Cybertron? The disappearances? The unexplained mechanimals? The corruption of the world’s energon supplies? All of it? The proof is real and the only answer?”

“I’m afraid so. Evidence of the battle between two great beings still mars the land across far reaching stretches of the wildlands. Our earliest historical scientific records include reference to the Shadow World and our research has pinpointed precisely where it can found, though the location of the door still eludes us. There’s no getting around the idea that the Histories do indeed contain a truthful element, as has proven to be the case with many mythologies,” Perceptor responded, taking the seat he had avoided when first Optimus offered it to him. He quirked an orbital ridge and offered a small smirk. “I must say that I find it rather ironic that the bearer of the Matrix—a bonafide holy relic—would display such disbelief of further mysticism become reality.”

“Not helping, Percy.” Optimus leaned back into the support of his chair, forcing himself not to slump. Orns of tutelage under Minimus left him hearing echoes of how disgraceful a thing it was to do even vorns after his social training. “Has the information been sent on to Megatron, as well?”

“Yes,” Perceptor said, adjusting his posture to sit a little straighter, hands curled together in his lap. His sharp blue of his optics flickered a little in likely a combination of tiredness and lack of recent fueling. “As was agreed, all information has been shared with the Decepticons. According to the response sent back with Blurr, Shockwave and his team have confirmed our findings through their own simultaneous investigation. I’ve already made the comparisons between our work. There is no discrepancy.”

Triggering his battle mask closed to hide his growing grimace, Optimus grumbled. “This is ridiculous,” he said, glancing toward the door when it chimed the presence of another seeking entrance. “Come,” he invited the mech to enter, knowing it was his Second without bothering to check, and continued his gripe with Perceptor. “We’re not a people ruled by fairy tales and magic, Perceptor. As a scientist, you know this better than even I do. There’s another answer—a _logical_ answer—and we’re just not seeing it yet.”

“But will the people wait long enough for us to find that answer?” Prowl asked, undoubtedly already aware of the findings of Perceptor and the rest of his researchers. He leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chassis and door wings held alert and curious.

Optimus merely groaned out a sigh, finally giving in to his natural instinct to slouch into the embrace of his deeply padded desk chair. Weight leaned to one side and propped on an armrest, he waved the fingers of one hand in Prowl’s direction. The tactician, a high ranking Enforcer recruited from Praxus shortly after Optimus’ rise to power, no doubt already had a plan of action formulated to allow for appeasement of the people while still seeking out a more legitimate truth. “Please, Prowl, tell me your thoughts.”

“Go along with it,” he said, ready as Optimus knew he would be with an answer. “Choose the number of bots the Histories want you to and they’ll go into the world in search of whatever relics it is that wait for them. Make a show of it. Let the people see you’re taking it seriously. And, while whoever these bots are head out, Perceptor and the others can continue their research, find the answer you’re looking for.”

A glance toward Perceptor showed the science bot nodding enthusiastically at the thought of the time for deeper examination of the issue uninterrupted. Optimus nodded along, sitting forward and bracing his chin on his folded hands, elbows propped on the edge of his desk. “Then we need to get the details of this plan worked out as soon as possible. The people are restless and I’d rather not have a riot on our hands if we can avoid it. Be sure to consult Megatron’s mechs to coordinate actions rather than instigate an incident.”

“Blurr returned from Kaon with word from Megatron on Decepticon plans as well as the information from Shockwave. Megatron is gathering his own to seek out the relics, but fully intends to keep to our truce rather than compete against us,” Prowl informed him. Optimus quirked a brow ridge, but was not truly surprised—Prowl’s intuitive grasp of what needed doing as a commander was one of the reasons Optimus trusted him so much. Against the skill and knowledge of Prowl, Optimus considered himself no more than a novice and figurehead. His beginnings as a simple dock worker fed these thoughts, much to the dismay of his officers. The flicker of lamplight off a fluttering door wing brought him back out of his head. “I’ll have things on our end ready within the joor,” Prowl added, giving him a knowing look, “but I’ll hold off on bringing the details to you until morning, if that pleases?”

“It very much pleases,” Optimus said. Judging from the curve of Prowl’s mouth, there was no need to mention how very glad he was to hand this sort of detail work off to someone that specialized in it. “See to it.”

“I’ll meet you in the dining hall for a morning cube with my report, then, sir.” The honorific simply showed the depth of Prowl’s amusement. He never used it in settings as private as this. Even Perceptor hid a polite chuckle behind a hand.

Giving them both a half-hearted glare, Optimus snorted. “Dismissed, both of you.”

As the door closed behind them, Optimus released the lock on his battle mask again and caught his face in his hands. Fatigue bowed his broad shoulders low, the weight of vorns he had not yet lived a heavier burden with every passing orn. Cybertron’s fate cast a grim shadow over all of them, growing only darker with every passing moment. He could only be grateful for his friends and the moments of levity they managed to bring him.

 

* * *

 

The dining hall stood out as the largest single room in the building that served as the Autobot headquarters. Early morning sunlight sent a golden glow across the wide expanse through tall, arched windows along the eastern side. Optimus specifically chose a spot that placed him directly centered in one of those broad sunny patches, letting the natural heat of their day star warm his plating. A few others lingered over their morning repast, but it was far too early in the orn for most to have made the journey to the hall. First to arrive himself, Optimus waited for Prowl, glancing up at the mech joining him when a datapad landed in front of him.

“Have you informed them?” Optimus asked, immediately going over the list of Autobots Prowl had put together. All were capable bots and none held positions so important they would be missed in the daily workings of the city. He hated to send any out into the open lands with the dangers that lurked there, but the damnable thing that was necessity would not allow otherwise.

“I have,” Prowl replied, taking a seat next to him at the table, mug of the highly filtered energon they were all surviving on in hand. It retained none of the natural flavor and additives became harder to come by with the passing of every orn. He sipped and grimaced, reaching for the shaker of magnesium flakes at the center of the long table. “None are particularly pleased to be leaving Iacon for such an ambiguous amount of time, but they understand why it needs to be done and won’t fight the decision. Beyond their usual amount of vocalized displeasure, that is.”

“Yes, I expect a great deal of that from Huffer, in particular,” Optimus said with a sigh. Most on the list would actually feel quite honored to partake in such a mission—Hot Rod and Thunderclash, most assuredly. Huffer and Cliffjumper, however, no doubt had complaints hanging from their glossae already. He felt a small touch of regret that the others would be subjected to all of it. Only a small one, though. He laid down the datapad and lifted his own mug, swirling the last of the glowing pink liquid inside around the bottom. It contained no additives, sacrificing the small measure so that his bots might have more among them. “The announcement and Tasking is scheduled for midmorning, I see. When have you determined for them to leave the wall? I haven’t read that far yet.”

“I thought it best to give them a decaorn to fully prepare and say their farewells.” Without asking, Prowl snatched up the mostly empty container of copper flakes and sprinkled a dash into Optimus’ mug. “You’re our leader, Optimus,” he gently reprimanded, “but that doesn’t mean you sacrifice every small joy in hard times. You need to take care of yourself as much as you do the rest of us.”

Optimus turned tired optics on his Second, but did not smile. “Thank you, my friend.” He leaned forward onto his elbows and stared down into the now copper-enhanced energon in his mug. “The world would be much more bleak without you in it.”

“Perhaps,” Prowl said after a deep drink, “but in my absence you would continue onward, anyway, because to do otherwise would be giving up.” He paused to nudge Optimus into another sip of his own. Satisfied he would finish his mug, Prowl added, “And giving up is something _you_ simply do not do.”

“No, I’ve never been very good at it,” Optimus said, finally finding his mouth curving upward, “but I fear I’ve begun to rely on you far too much.” The faint tang of copper spread over his glossa with another sip of his energon and he turned his attention to his chronometer. A pulse of energy filled his chassis as he viewed the ticking nano-kliks. Not his spark, but the Matrix, much to his surprise. The Matrix had not made itself actively known to him since he received the relic. He pressed a hand over his chestplates, but made no mention of the strange reaction of the relic to Prowl. “I’ll meet you in the yard,” he said, shoving his emptied mug away and rising to his pedes. “Our midmorning appointment isn’t as far away as we think it is at this point.”

“No, it’s not,” Prowl agreed, lifting his own mug in Optimus’ direction in a small salute of sorts. There was a glint in his optics that spoke of mischief few would ever ascribe to him. “A purposeful maneuver, I assure you.”

A chuckle escaped Optimus as he shook his helm, a playful flutter of Prowl’s door wings, still marked with the Enforcer brand of Praxus, completing the portrait of the unexpected. “You always have liked making certain I couldn’t back out of the important things.”

“Someone has to,” Prowl replied. “Might as well be—”

A small figure darted into the dining hall, a flailing of white with red detailing, and shrieking with laughter. Hot on the mechling’s tail was a larger figure, also white and red, grinning as he called after the little one. “First Aid, what have Carrier and I told you about running through the halls, hm?” the flyer asked, catching the tiny First Aid and swinging him up on a hip. The youngling clutched tight and snuggled closer, neatly avoiding the many long and pointed flares gracing the mech’s frame. “Oh, don’t you think getting cute is going to make it all better, you silly little thing.”

“Always works with Carrier,” the mechling proclaimed, leaning back to stare up at his sire with wide blue optics. His boxy little frame looked nothing like either of his creators, proclaiming that one of them could no doubt trace back to a medical class bot at some point in their family lines. Optimus laid his shanix on the carrier—that was a mech well-known to not know anything about his own history.

And speaking of the devil, the sparkling’s carrier rushed into the dining hall, making his way directly toward both little mech and sire. Armored in some of the most eye-catching curves in the entirety of the Autobot army, the newly appeared mech snatched little First Aid away from his sire and enveloped him far more completely than the size of his frame suggested should be possible. The sharp audial fins flaring from his helm caught the morning sunlight, as did the sleek points of his white shoulder kibble, red accents tracing sporty racer lines. When he spoke, the mechling’s carrier sounded slightly out of breath, common among creators with young and mobile offspring. “First Aid, how many more times are we going to have this conversation?”

“Lots?” First Aid guessed while eagerly reaching for the dark sword hilt that stood tall behind his carrier, held in place by clamps built into his spinal structure. The scene left Optimus stifling a laugh, the dancing happiness on the youngster’s face one of the brightest parts of his existence.

“Aid….”

“Are you about to reprimand that mechling in my presence, Drift?” Optimus called out across the large room, garnering some amusement from the bots scattered around with the last of the breakfast crowd. “At least he’s honest.”

That helm with the flaring audials turned hard and sharp in his his direction, bright blue optics filtering paler with surprise. “Sir!” he said, settling First Aid more securely in his arms. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Good morning, Optimus,” the flyer greeted from his place beside Drift and First Aid. He slipped a little closer to his mate, resting a hand Optimus could not see low on Drift’s back. His white plating fluffed and settled, much like the feathers on an organic bird Optimus had once seen in his long ago youth. Watching the way Drift unconsciously shifted closer to him made it very evident just how Wing had lured the lovely mech away from the Decepticons so easily, much to Megatron’s continuing disgust. “I hear rumor that important things are in the works?”

Optimus huffed a small laugh. Of course word was already spreading. “Yes, Wing,” he said, heading toward the pair of soldiers and their mechling. When close enough, he stroked a hand over First Aid’s boxy little helm, warmth suffusing his spark when the mechling nuzzled into the touch. “We meet in the main yard in all of a joor because Prowl is entirely too efficient.”

“Of course, sir,” Wing said, looking past Optimus to laugh at Prowl. Optimus glanced over his shoulder to see Prowl’s mug lifted in another salute—the mech was far too cheeky for his own good and most never even noticed. “We’ll be there,” Wing promised returning his attention to Optimus, “but first breakfast and getting First Aid to the nursery to play with the twins.”

Those were magic words, causing First Aid to perk up and bounce in his place on Drift’s hip. “I love Sun and Side,” he announced, patting at his carrier’s chest plating. “Can I go see them now?”

“Not yet, Aid. After your morning fuel,” Drift told him, receiving a small pout but no further disruptions. Drift expelled a patient sigh and snuggled First Aid closer again, giving his mechling an indulgent smile. The sappiest look passed over Wing’s face in reaction, making Optimus wish for a moment he could find what the two mecha had found with one another. Or just what they had with their bitlet, something even Ratchet—crotchety old medic that he was—had attained when he adopted a pair of twins barely half a vorn old, just a quarter the age of First Aid. Barely toddling, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were already a whirlwind of yellow, red, and excitement, bringing out things in Ratchet that Optimus had thought long gone.

Pulling from his thoughts, Optimus lifted First Aid’s chin with the knuckle of a curled finger and met those big blue optics. “Best have your breakfast while you can, little one,” he said quietly, leaning in close so that First Aid could better hear him. “Your creators will take you to see the twins and you know how much energy it takes to keep up with them, even for you.”

“Uh huh, lots and lots of energy,” the First Aid agreed after a few moments of thought. He obviously took some comfort from the words shared with Optimus, his smile returning as he stretched out a hand to _pat-pat-pat_ Optimus’ face with all the dexterity inborn into young mechlings. Optimus reveled in the small fingers brushing over his cheek and nose. Then the little mech turned in his carrier’s arm and asked both creators, “Carrier, Sire, can I eat now?”

“Yes, Aid,” Drift assured the mechling, petting his helm. He offered Optimus a tired smile. “We’ll be in the courtyard on time, sir. Don’t worry.”

“I never do when it comes to you and Wing,” Optimus said, nodding as the mated pair and their sparkling bid farewell and sought out a free spot in the sun to dine. His spark felt just a little heavier for the lack of their family bond in his immediate presence. He straightened his small slump in posture and turned to meet Prowl’s optics, knowing the Praxian saw every bit of growing despair in him. Would there be a chance for the little ones to grow and change the world? None of them knew and that was, perhaps, the thing that most broke Optimus’ spark. Their time, all of them, grew so very short.

His contemplations running deeper, he headed toward the open doors. Only the nimbleness of the mech just entering kept them from colliding.

“Oh, excuse me! Good morning, sir.”

Optimus shook off the cloud growing over him again to offer the young Praxian before him a nod. “Good morning to you, as well, Bluestreak.”

With a friendly flutter of door wings and a wide smile, Bluestreak stepped aside and allowed Optimus to leave the dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing really loose with this thing. Most of it is informed by canon, but only enough that it's somewhat recognizable. :D


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this story, I've had to devise my own system of time. It uses the standard names for most of them, but they don't necessarily go with the standard equivalency. (Such as orn. I prefer it to stand as reference to a Cybertronian day rather than the week and a half that is more canon.)
> 
> Units of Time:  
> nano-klik: ~1 second  
> klik: ~1.2 minutes  
> joor: ~1.5 hours  
> orn: ~1 day  
> decaorn: ~10 days (comparable to a week)  
> lunar-cycle: ~35-36 days (comparable to a month)  
> decivorn: ~8.3 years (comparable to a decade)  
> vorn: ~83 years  
> megavorn: ~8,300 years
> 
> BEWARE! SUPER CUTE SPARKLING INTERACTION AHEAD. XD

Slipping into the nursery, Prowl watched as a young mech sat on the floor among a small flock of sparklings. He was half a vorn shy of the thirteen vorns that would proclaim him a legal adult in their society, just old enough to join everyone in the courtyard for the announcement as one of the Autobot rank and file. His arms were currently full of Ratchet's tiny sparklings.  
  
“Streetwise,” he called out, standing off to one side of the door so as not to block it, “speak with me a moment?”  
  
The white and red plated youth looked his way, then down at the twins, and—instead of setting them down—clambered awkwardly to his pedes, hefting the bitlets more securely against his sides. He made his way over to Prowl, a curious glint in his soft blue optics and a wide smile stretched across his mouth. So much of his carrier showed in that happy grin, bringing a poignant twist to Prowl’s spark. He quickly discarded all thought of what might have been in favor of the now, focusing on Streetwise in the now rather than the past. “Prowl, sir.”  
  
Taking note of the new mech in the room with them, the little ones decided to make Streetwise’s task more difficult than expected. On his left, the yellow one with the flamboyant audial fins, Sunstreaker, pulled a grumpy frown and burrowed into Streetwise’s side. On his right, the vividly red Sideswipe squealed in the rudimentary chirps of the very young and squirmed until he could hold his arms out toward Prowl, leaning so far out that Streetwise struggled to keep hold of him. His intent was obvious, his desire beyond Prowl’s ability to understand or _with_ stand.  
  
“I think he’s fond of you, sir,” Streetwise commented, holding the tiny round-bellied Sideswipe in Prowl’s direction.  
  
Giving in before Sideswipe could get more demanding, Prowl accepted the bundle of liveliness and let him curl up against his chassis. A small purr almost like that of a photovoltaic kitten rose up from the appeased sparkling. Prowl tweaked one little black audial nub on his helm, eliciting a squeak. “Brat,” he murmured against the top of Sideswipe’s helm, but held him in a safe cradle of elbow and hand. “I suppose I’ll let you have your way for now, though.”  
  
“You wanted to talk to me, sir?” Streetwise reminded him, the normally fussy Sunstreaker bundled quietly against his lanky frame. The youth was surprisingly adept in the care of sparklings, especially when it came to the finickier bitlets. The nursery was blessed by his willing presence, Prowl knew.  
  
“Yes, I did,” he said, jiggling Sideswipe a little to earn a giggle. “Optimus Prime is making an announcement in the main yard shortly and I came to extend the offer for you to come view it in person, standing among your fellow Autobots.” He watched the way Streetwise’s face shifted from its standard smile into a glowing expression of awe.  
  
“Really?” Streetwise asked, repositioning Sunstreaker in a way that had tiny yellow hands clutching at his chest plating and a whine forming in a still stabilizing vocalizer. Optics widening, Streetwise immediately comforted the sparkling before Sunstreaker managed to get himself really worked up. Nuzzling one wing-like audial, he murmured, “Sorry, Sunny. Sorry.”  
  
In Prowl’s arms, Sideswipe watched his brother with curious optics, shoving one curled little fist into his mouth. They were plenty old enough to have started speaking in the simplest Neocybex, but neither had shown an interest thus far. Ratchet assured them all it was common in twins. Attention returned to Streetwise, Prowl said, “So, can I expect you to be there?”  
  
Streetwise’s grin was back, spread from one side of his helm to the other as he gave Prowl a smart nod. Sunstreaker chirped against the side of his neck as he answered, “Yes, sir. I’ll be there!”  
  
“Half a joor,” Prowl told him. “Don’t be late.” Giving Sideswipe one last rub to an audial horn, Prowl handed him back over to Streetwise. His spark only faltered a bit when Sideswipe squawked and reached back for him with both hands. “Later, Sideswipe,” he promised the little mech, stepping back with intentions of heading out the door. “I’ll visit with you after midday has passed. You’ll have your brother and First Aid and all the other sparklings to play with until then.”  
  
“Ah!” Sideswipe cried at him, leaning out as far as possible, hands stretched out into the gulf that lay between them now. “Pow say!”  
  
Prowl stopped right where he was and stared at the sparkling. He shared a look with Streetwise before meeting Sideswipe’s wide and pleading optics, watched the malleable mesh of his bottom lip wibble. A little hand reached again and grabbed at the air, his entire frame squirming against Streetwise’s hold around his middle. “Did you just say something to me, Sideswipe?”  
  
Cleanser fluid beaded at the corner of Sideswipe’s optics and his entire face drooped. “Pow say?”  
  
Putting his hand over the center of his chest plating when a hitch occurred in the spin of his spark, Prowl wondered what Ratchet would say about Sideswipe’s first word being “Prowl” closely followed by “stay.” Even Streetwise and Sunstreaker stared at the little red mech in awe. “Oh, Sideswipe,” Prowl said, stepping close to catch the grasping hand and stroke his other hand over Sideswipe’s helm. “I wish I could, but I have many things that require my presence elsewhere.”  
  
Unlike some—such as Ironhide—Prowl never dumbed down his language around the sparklings. He did receive many confused looks, but they tended to be accompanied by the bitlets asking what the bigger words meant. Sideswipe never asked, nor did his brother. They seemed to figure out the meanings on their own, puzzling through the strange words until they happened upon something that fit. Or, Prowl considered, it might have been something they did together through the fabled bond twins shared—one of the many things Ratchet had numerous words about, most best saved for the presence of adults only. The red plated sparkling held onto the large hand that held his and tilted his helm into the touch. He vented a sigh too big for his little frame, those tiny shoulders drooping much like his face had only nano-kliks ago. “Pow not say?”  
  
“Not right now, I’m afraid,” he answered, his spark damping a bit at the depth of the disappointment and sadness that filled Sideswipe’s entire being. “I will come back, though. I swear it.”  
  
Sideswipe gave him a long and steady gaze, deep blue optics penetrating in their stare, seeming well beyond his meager age. “Pow come back. Pomise. Si ‘member.” He turned a look on his brother. “Righ’, Suhn?”  
  
As Prowl and Streetwise watched, Sunstreaker nodded. “Si ‘member. Suhn ‘member, too.”  
  
Squeezing Sunstreaker a touch tighter against him, Streetwise leaned in to bump noses with the sparkling while giving Sideswipe a little bounce. “Thank you for sharing your words with us.” Unfortunately, Sideswipe did not seem cheered by this recognition of the event and Sunstreaker only briefly found a smile. Streetwise sighed looked at Prowl again. “I’m sorry, sir. They’re not usually like this.”  
  
“It’s all right, Streetwise. I know,” Prowl said, giving both tiny sparklings another pet on the helm. “I’m just sad to be the cause of this particular upset.”  
  
Sideswipe made a grab for his hand again as Prowl pulled away, catching a finger and holding on tight. “Pow. Si hub Pow.”  
  
Tilting his helm a little as he processed the sparkling’s half-formed words, Prowl was unable to stop the grin that took over his face and the sizable flutter of his door wings. He dipped in and pressed a kiss to Sideswipe’s forehelm as he quietly replied, “I love you, too, Sideswipe.” He glanced over at Sunstreaker, taking in the not entirely there pout. “And you, too, Sunstreaker.”  
  
The pout cleared away and Sunstreaker’s face deepened in color before the sparkling did his best to burrow into Streetwise again, this time to hide his embarrassment. Sideswipe still appeared sad, but at least it was no longer bad enough to verge on distraught. Prowl straightened and settled himself into a stance more appropriate to his rank when speaking to a soldier. “I’ll see you in the yard, Streetwise.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Forcing himself to turn away, breaking optic contact with the twins, Prowl headed back for the hall. Stepping through the open door, he nearly collided with the white and red buzz of a very familiar mechling. “Sun and Side, let’s play!”  
  
“Aid, what have you been told about running through the halls?” Streetwise called out to the youngster as he zipped a circle around Prowl, dragging a sticky hand around Prowl’s thighs in the process. “Sorry, sir,” came the expected apology, although it was not needed. Prowl huffed a quiet laugh and shook his helm as he continued on his way, Streetwise continuing to speak to First Aid—“Where are you creators, First Aid?”—as the twins squeaked and trilled happily at the appearance of their friend. Prowl was glad they moved on from their disappointment in him so quickly.  
  
Passing Drift and Wing in the hall, Prowl nodded greeting again. “He’s already in the nursery,” he informed them, door wings shifting in the direction of the door.  
  
“Sorry about the sticky hands,” Wing said, grinning. “He got away from us before we could wash him off.”  
  
“Again,” added a contrite Drift from his place at Wing’s side. Primus knew sticky handprints were discovered daily from the mechling’s adventures around the command center.  
  
“No worries,” Prowl assured them, waving the issue away with a brief swipe of his hand through the air. “I’d rather be sticky from energon gels than not have sparklings around at all, even the more rambunctious ones.”  
  
Wing laughed while Drift shook his helm and tried not to smile, ending up with something more like a smirk. His long time among the Decepticons—as a favorite of Megatron, no less—effected him even now. Wing still had moments of despair that Drift would never be entirely free of the darkness of the Tyrant and ununtrium-like hold he kept over his forces. Prowl had not the spark to inform Wing of just how dark the skies were over their own Autobots as the cycles crept onward and the forces working to destroy Cybertron strengthened.  
  
“I’ll see you both in the yard shortly,” Prowl said, receiving affirmatives as they parted ways.  


* * *

  
The crowd gathered in the main courtyard of the Autobot Command Center was massive. Not an open spot could be seen from Prowl’s position at the Prime’s right hand. He stood tall, door wings at attention with sensors attuned for any misdeed, arms rested at his sides. To Prowl’s right, Jazz stood and gazed over the throngs before them, visor catching the sunlight in bright flashes with every shift of his helm. “Plenty of civilians here t’ see this, looks like,” he said, just loud enough for Prowl to hear him over the murmuring crowd. He nodded toward the balcony on the science building. “The press is here, too, I see.”  
  
“Yes.” Prowl glanced toward the balcony. Camerabots and journalists from each of the remaining major outlets filled the narrow space, prepared to broadcast live for the locals that could not make it and record for transport to other cities. Technology based communications between cities had failed completely fifty vorns ago, after having gone spotty and unreliable well before that. “All of Cybertron will know what gets said here today, eventually.”  
  
“Ol’ Megatron and his Decepticons already know what’s happening, I hear. Word is he’s got his own gig started.” The sound of lower Polyhex would forever flavor the spy master’s words, Prowl knew. It was a comfort, honestly, known to him from his earliest orns as their creators had been close friends, though that was hardly all that lay between them.  
  
“The information was indeed shared with the Decepticons. Blurr ran himself ragged getting to Kaon and back yesterorn,” Prowl affirmed, not at all surprised Jazz knew, but intrigued that he already had knowledge of what Megatron and his mechs were up to. It was an ability the Autobot spy master had never felt the need to explain. Prowl also knew better than to ask. “You’ll have to update me on just what you know so far.”  
  
“Always do.”  
  
Prowl bit back the snort that wanted to escape, deeming it inappropriate to the situation—they both knew those two words were not precisely true. It was better that way, though. He checked his chronometer, the digits rolling down to the nano-klik across the lower right corner of his HUD. Turning to Optimus, he leaned close and intoned near his audial, “Sir, it’s time.”  
  
Acknowledging him with a nod, Optimus stepped toward the front edge of the raised platform and looked out over the gathered crowd. His blue and red plating gleamed with a glow that looked born from Afterspark, an effect from the mixture of morning sunlight and dust that filled the air. Most of those at the front of the courtyard were Autobot soldiers, ranging from Drift and Wing to Ironhide and Kup. The likes of Hot Rod and Bluestreak lingered farther back, young mechs that tended to whisper and fool around as much as they listened. Streetwise squirmed in through the crowd to join them, nearly arriving too late and bumping into Bluestreak after a quick stumble. Prowl made note of the small, sticky hand print that still decorated one cheek with a smirk. A muffled chuckle from Jazz said he noticed, as well. In the dusty courtyard, it would no doubt become very visible as it grayed against the paleness of his face.  
  
“Friends and citizens of Iacon,” Optimus began, speaking with the voice he reserved for such moments, strong and carrying to even the farthest corners of the enclosed courtyard without need for amplification. He gestured toward the news crews on the balcony and added, “Citizens of the whole of Cybertron. Today I speak to you all of the promise of our continuance as a people.”  
  
Quiet descended over the crowd, everyone stilling to watch the last of the Primes deliver his words, even Hot Rod. Prowl stood straighter, door wings angled upward and back in a show of attention. Beside him, Jazz took a stance slightly less lackadaisical than was his usual.  
  
“Our brightest minds,” Optimus continued, a deep resonance in his words, “have discovered truth to what some have already claimed knowledge of—our world is dying and the blame does not entirely lay on our own shoulders.” The reaction was mixed. Prowl watched as the more analytically inclined grimaced and shifted uncomfortably, Ratchet most forward among them. He scowled and crossed his arms in a righteous grump. On the other end of the spectrum was the likes of Drift, a mech of stunningly deep belief for someone with such a vicious history, the sudden radiance of possible hope blossoming on his face. Most, though, sat somewhere in between those two extremes.  
  
“Get on with it, Prime,” Ratchet called out from his place at the front of the crowd, the Autobot’s Chief Medic never afraid to speak out, no matter the subject. His scowl deepened and the fold of his arms emphasized the overall stiffness of his white and red frame. “If I have to listen to this woo-woo slag, don’t keep me waiting.”  
  
“Of course, good doctor,” Optimus said, garnering a smattering of laughter. He curled his hands and Prowl could tell he was wishing for a pulpit, somewhere to hide the anxiety that no doubt accompanied the requirement he send bots into the danger of the wilds outside the city wall. A deep intake of hazy air, a slow release, then he spoke again. “I was reminded that at the core of mythology tends to lie a grain of truth. Perceptor and his fellow members of the both the Autobot and Decepticon science divisions have scoured the Histories and found clues that led them to unthinkable answers.”  
  
The weight of the crowd’s combined gaze had even Prowl disconcerted and Jazz shuffling with a touch of unease. They all waited for whatever words Optimus sought to tell them. Prowl watched as a small hitch in the set of Optimus’ shoulders was followed by the lifting of one hand to rest on his chassis, directly over both spark and Matrix of Leadership. An off-color tint suffused his leader’s optics, shifting them from liberty blue to something just a touch brighter. A glance showed the crowd was not unaware that something was happening as Optimus’ voice took on even deeper tones, rumbling and smooth as if drawn up from the very center of the planet. “The door to the Shadow World where Unicron is locked away is weakening. We know where the door is, but we neither have the means to reinforce and repair it nor are we prepared to face the Chaos Bringer when he and his minions break free.”  
  
When, not if. All sound stopped, leaving the courtyard in deafening silence.  
  
“Through study of the Histories, however, we are enlightened of a path the Guiding Hand has given us in anticipation of this day, direction on how to proceed.” Optimus paused and Prowl watched the those on his list stand just a bit taller in anticipation of the coming announcement. The odd glow from Optimus’ optics grew a bit easier to see, a sprinkling of glittering light starting to peek through the seams of his chest. “The Enigma of Combination, the Emberstone, the Chimera Stone, the Star Saber, and the Cyber Caliber. Artifacts wielded by the original Primes, created through the will of Primus. Eight among us will be sent out into the world in search of these five relics long missing from the temples of the Thirteen, their duty to return them to Vector Sigma, wherein the door to the Shadow World is hidden.”  
  
Stark interest warred with disgust on Ratchet’s face, repeated on many others through crowd. The other end of the spectrum revealed itself in rapt attention and devout signs displayed by the likes of Wing and Drift. Prowl caught one of those hand signs flashed by Jazz, mostly hidden from view of the crowd—he knew Jazz professed to believe, but had seen no true expression of it before this, despite their long friendship. Jazz caught his optic and shrugged, murmuring, “Couldn’t hurt, right?”  
  
“Today, we undertake the Tasking,” Optimus continued, sweeping his gaze across the gathered. “Chosen under the auspices of the Matrix itself, these bots will carry on their shoulders the fate of us all. Please join me on the platform as I call your names.” The glow of his optics intensified again and the light escaping from the Matrix became more obvious still, though his plating remained sealed. The rising electromagnetic field of their leader spun out and drenched them all with a sensation of otherworldliness. In his place at the back of the crowd, Hot Rod bounced on his pedes like a mechling. Prowl, himself, could not hold back the twitching in his door wings, a display shown by the rest of the Praxians in attendance, as well. He waited, expectant, for the first name to be spoken. His optics sought out Huffer, meeting the worried look of the small mech. “First among the Tasked shall be—”  
  
Huffer started to step forward.  
  
“—Prowl.”  
  
An gasp ran through the people, the crowd teeking of a swirling mixture of excitement and despair—their leader’s Second, a deeply trusted mech, leaving the city? Both blessing to the quest and a major loss to Iacon itself. Huffer flinched and set his foot back down, confusion on his face. On the platform, Prowl echoed his sentiment, door wings flaring as he swung a wide-opticked look of shock on his leader. “Optimus—”  
  
The optics that turned on him were not those of his Prime. Something far beyond his knowledge looked upon him in that moment before turning back to gathered crowd. “His presence will be deeply missed in the dealings of Iacon, but his place is among the chosen.”  
  
Beside Prowl, Jazz reached over to bump a hand against his, leaning in to murmur against his audial. “That ain’t Optimus, Prowl. Something bigger than him wants you out there.”  
  
“I noticed,” he whispered in return, doing his best to still the anxious shiver that wanted to wrack his frame. “I’ll deal with it. I’m more concerned about what’s going to happen to the rest of my list now.”  
  
“His Second,” spoke the voice through Optimus, “shall be Jazz.”  
  
Jolting to stand taller at the sound of his own name and stepping up even with Prowl on the platform, Jazz said, “Well, we’re not playin’ around, are we?”  
  
“No,” Prowl replied, wiping the details of his former list from his battle computer and allowing it to begin summarizing the new as it came to be. With the nature of the Tasking, he had no choice but to accept what unfolded here. Going against something from the Matrix and whatever power spoke through it would bring only disaster with the public.  
  
“Going with them, the remainder of the Tasked shall be: Bluestreak.”  
  
The young Praxian, highly skilled with a rifle, fluttered his door wings in question. An odd look passed between him and Hot Rod. Hot Rod must have shared word of his place on Prowl’s list with Bluestreak. To have it turned around on them was no doubt unsettling. It took Hot Rod’s hand shoving him in the direction of the platform for Bluestreak to make his way through the crowd to join Prowl and Jazz.  
  
He did not have time to reach it before Optimus spoke another name. “Drift.”  
  
The slim white mech balked and turned a distressed look on his conjunx endura. Prowl could not hear what he was saying, nor Wing’s response, but the sudden droop of his audial fins suggested acquiescence. He had all of started to pull away from his mate when Optimus added another to the list of the Tasked.  
  
“Wing.”  
  
Prowl’s spark dampened as he watched Drift stumble in reaction. The mech wore his spark for all to see, even before he had defected from the Decepticons. In the wake of First Aid’s unfurling, this had only grown stronger. Wing stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Drift, consoling his mate, though quite obviously disconcerted to have heard his own name called, as well. What was Optimus—or Primus, as it might very well be—thinking, separating creators from such a young mechling? And a separation it would be, as bringing First Aid on such a dangerous mission was unthinkable. Even Ratchet appeared upset as Wing slowly eased Drift toward the platform. Optimus continued, seemingly untouched by the display.  
  
“Blurr.”  
  
This name caused another stir in Prowl’s mind. If Blurr left the city, Iacon would be left without its fastest form of communication with Megatron’s forces. With any other city on the planet, let alone Kaon. Whatever power was behind this Tasking, Prowl could not see the reasoning behind the choices it was making. The racer, however, did not question and simply joined them on the platform, laying a comforting hand on Drift’s shoulder as the he came to stand beside him. Unsteady on his pedes, Blurr showed all sign of continuing exhaustion from his recent courier run—racing halfway across the planet and back in the span of a orn was not so easily shaken off by anyone.  
  
“Barricade.”  
  
The heavy-build, one-time Enforcer merely grunted and moved toward the end of the row of the Tasked. His addition to the team Prowl could not argue. While not the biggest of frame types, the mech gave the group a much needed dose of frontline sensibility. Prowl could only hope the mech did not become difficult to handle, well aware of the long history of misbehavior in his file.  
  
With one more name to go, Prowl vented a quiet sigh and returned his attention to Optimus. Not one of his own choices had made it thus far. He did not expect the last to be from his previously compiled list, either.  
  
“The last of the eight,” Optimus intoned over the faint murmurs of uncertainty coming from the crowd, “shall be Streetwise.”  
  
At the back of the crowd, standing in stunned disbelief beside a curiously silent Hot Rod, the young mech did not move, pointedly unsure of what just happened. Over all the others, Prowl could not hold himself back from protest over this name. “Optimus, I can’t let this you have this one,” Prowl said, turning toward his leader and facing him down. “Streetwise is not of age and should not even be in consideration for such a mission. He is barely trained in the use of weapons and—”  
  
The being inhabiting the Prime simply stared at Prowl before saying, “He will go. Young he might be, but he is Tasked.”  
  
A hand on Prowl’s arm kept him from disagreeing again. He looked back to find Jazz shaking his helm. “Don’t do it, Prowler. We can take care of Streets, keep him safe. You _know_ that ain’t Optimus talkin’.”  
  
Prowl’s engine growled a low rumble through his chassis. He was not pleased, but understood Jazz was right. Catching Streetwise’s optics from across the yard, he nodded and motioned for the youth to join them on the platform. Streetwise steeled himself, shared a quick word with Hot Rod, and skittered his way forward. Bluestreak shifted over, letting Streetwise slip in beside Jazz, who rested a steadying hand on his creation’s back. A faint clatter of plating gave away Streetwise’s obvious nervousness.  
  
With all eight of the chosen bots stood in front of the crowd, Optimus addressed the people once more. “Fear not, my people. There is plenty of time for this undertaking to be completed,” Optimus assured them. “Thirteen vorns, one for each of the original Primes, still remains before the lock will break.” He shifted a look over the eight of them, the glow fading quickly from both optics and chassis. “I have faith our chosen will return long before that time is over, but we must not dawdle. Prepare yourself swiftly for your departure comes with tomorrow’s dawning.”  
  
Prowl could only hope that last command still came from the Hand and not Optimus as Drift and Wing turned to one another in utter dismay. Barricade sneered at the pair, the dark hue of his plating making him but a shadow beside them. Prowl, however, could not fault the sparkmates. Thirteen vorns meant a lot in the development of sparklings. With no way of knowing how long it might take them to accomplish their Task or for the scientists to find a different option—one that did not rely on mysticism and old stories—First Aid might very well be fully grown by the time they returned. Even the twins would be counted among the adults in that amount of time.  
  
“Don’t worry, Optimus,” Prowl said, raising his voice to be heard by all. He did not plan on keeping two of his mechs away from their creation—from home—for longer than could be helped. He would not keep _any_ of them away. “I’ll make certain we’re back long before then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The child-speak patterns for Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are based on the speech patterns a nephew of mine used at around the same sort of age. :)


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not working with a beta. It's all me, faults and otherwise. <3

“As requested, Lord Megatron, I’ve consulted with Primus,” Sunstorm said, standing at the entrance of the large gathering hall. Like the rest of the fortress that housed the Decepticons, it was a place of long, unbroken lines and subtle curves, dulled in color by age alone to gunmetal blue and hints of deep violets—the remnants of a greater age that brought forth a disturbing mesh of disgust and despair. “Our eight have been Chosen and await only the Tasking.”  
  
Megatron sat in negligent fashion, not quite slumped but by no means regal. Risen from the depths of the mines beneath Nova Point and passed triumphantly through the gladiatorial arenas, Megatron felt no need for formality. That was better left to his subordinates. He grunted and waved the yellow flyer closer to his throne. “Bring the list here. I wish to see it,” he commanded, red optics bright in the half-light that lay over his throne. The pale brilliance of the afternoon sun wreaked havoc on the optical sensors, fading all hues to dull washes. “We must not allow our _allies_ too far ahead of us in this venture.”  
  
The shadows cast by slender pillars and tall windows down either side of the massive chamber shifted over the form of the flyer as he crossed to stand before dais. He swept a low bow before ascending two of the five risers, just close enough to hold out the datapad without offending the warlord that was his leader. Megatron approved. If only more of his subordinates were so inclined to such obedience and deference. Soundwave, standing to his right, brought the count up to two. He also held the rare position of being allowed to question Megatron’s decisions with little to no chance of reprimand.  
  
With the datapad in hand, Megatron scrolled through the profiles Sunstorm had selected—through the wishes of Primus and the Guiding Hand, if one chose to believe in such nonsense. An astonishing amount of his soldiers did, much to his initial surprise. He frowned at the list. The entirety of his elite trine, one of his generals, two of Tarn’s mechs, and two of Soundwave’s. Were the reason for their selection less important, Megatron would have thrown the datapad at Sunstorm’s helm and booted the flyer outside the city wall. Instead, knowing he would not win this particular battle against the mech that fancied himself the Kaonite Power of Primus, Megatron plotted a way to work with it. “Rally them and the rest of my mecha to the hall by sunset.”  
  
“Yes, my lord,” Sunstorm replied, giving another of those deep bows of his. “Your will be done.” Turning with a wide sweep of his wings, the burning yellow flyer exited the room. All it lacked was the billow of the traditional red cape of Sunstorm’s assumed station.  
  
Releasing a harsh vent at the back his intake, Megatron shifted to sit a bit more upright and turned an inquisitive look on his Third. “Soundwave,” he said, holding out the datapad to the mech, “tell me what you make of this.”  
  
The boxy blue mech accepted the datapad, peering over the contents with the fastidious ease built from his long held place as communications officer and spy master. His red visor flashed as it caught a touch of the afternoon light, his face unreadable, hidden as it was behind his mask. “A collection of disparate names. Most from among our best, but none so skilled or powerful as to be worth vetoing from the list.”  
  
Megatron’s frown turned a little darker and he leaned his chin into one hand, rubbing his forefinger along his lower lip. He stared blindly into the light and shadow striped length of the chamber, digesting the words. “You’re not against the selection of Ravage or Misfire?”  
  
“No, my lord,” Soundwave said. “Both will be a great asset to the mission.” He returned the datapad to Megatron, standing to face him now.  
  
A snort preceded Megatron lifting his chin to give Soundwave a half-sparked glare. “You believe in this nonsense, don’t you? Not as strongly as the simpleton that just left the room, but you do count yourself among the faithful.” He allowed himself another sigh and idly scooted the datapad onto the far arm of his throne, a substantial seat designed for frames larger than his own. It was just another piece of the past claimed by the Decepticons when he and his forces took the city all those vorns ago. “Communication with the Autobots will become much more difficult with the loss of Skywarp to this.”  
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave agreed, clasping his hands behind his back. His helm tilted a bit to one side as he proposed an alternative. “Many flyers exist in our ranks. They may not be as expedient as a teleporter, but they will suffice in his absence.”  
  
“I don’t suppose you can gain me access to the list of those Optimus Prime is sending on this ridiculous quest?”  
  
“Information will be obtained,” Soundwave replied. “Skywarp will be sent before our people’s departure along with word of our own Tasked. He will be exhausted enough to properly recharge overnight, as an added bonus.” The smirk hiding behind that mask and visor was so blatantly apparent Megatron did not even need to look at the mech, let alone actually see beneath the mask, to know it was there. He was right, though. Skywarp was well-known to have an abundance of energy that built up and kept him active for orns on end if not dispersed through appropriate means. Teleporting was merely the simplest and, therefore best, fashion to do so. In fact, it stood to reason that lack of use of his warp drive _caused_ the build up of energy.  
  
His misgivings only slightly appeased, Megatron grunted again and shoved to his pedes. “Let us share a cube, my friend. I think perhaps a top off might make this a little easier to swallow.”  


* * *

  
“We’re _what_ and for _how_ long?”  
  
Megatron sighed, catching his face in his palm. Of course. He really should have expected something like that out of Skywarp. Especially in the middle of the Tasking. He suspected the flyer was mostly worried that it would take him away from the little Autobot racer no one was supposed to know he was canoodling with.  
  
“The Autobot scientists have proposed the very same answer as our own,” Megatron explained with for more patience than he normally felt in regards to the dark flyer. It helped that he also directed it at the rest of Sunstorm’s Chosen. “They choose their own Tasked and you will all be after the same relics. Do not seek to take any the Autobots might find from them as it is far more imperative that they be found at all.”  
  
With the noted exception of Thundercracker—the blue flyer always steady and dependable when it mattered—not a one of his mecha looked comfortable with the thought of so openly cooperating with the Autobot forces. Despite the vorns passed since Megatron agreed to the truce with Optimus Prime, things between the groups remained tense. Tarn’s mechs, Kaon and Vos, were undoubtedly most perturbed by this development, but Megatron fully intended each of them work together with their former enemies. Even Skywarp appeared ill at ease with the thought, his pet racer not enough to douse his fervor for the Cause. Cybertron’s continuance, though, rested well above any aggression that might still linger.  
  
“When all are found, however,” Megatron continued, bringing the eight and the rest of the rabble back to attention, “we will assure they are brought back to Kaon, for the door to Vector Sigma is located in our own city. The Autobots will not agree with this, of course, which is why those not Tasked will share shifts in searching out the door. We will have proof of it for our refutation when the time is here and Optimus Prime declares otherwise.  
  
“You are Tasked, my Chosen. My _Seekers_.” Megatron rose from his seat to tower over most of those gathered before him, speaking the designation of the elite soldiers of Vos, fallen homeland of so many of his flyers, with purpose. All of his Tasked stood just a bit taller at the proclamation—the flyers, especially. Their wings canted in an immense show of pride, their back struts straight, shoulders back and plating fluffed. Megatron swept an arm along the line of eight warriors standing at the foot of the dais. “My Seekers, the Seekers of Kaon, will bring on themselves and all of us great honor and victory over the darkness that has overcome our world. Join me now and let your brethren see your faces one last time before you prepare and make your departure.”  
  
He named them off, one at a time, and they stepped forward, taking position on the third of the five risers and facing their peers. Some received cheers from the others in the crowd, others little more than hushed murmurs. The two members of the Justice Division garnered utter silence and fearful looks from more than one. Megatron understood the reaction—Tarn’s mecha took great pains to build and maintain their reputations among the Decepticons and Autobots alike.  
  
“These are the warriors that will save us all. Praise their courage and wish them strength and fortitude in their journey.” Another round of cheers only just began when Megatron spoke again. In the joors between that afternoon and the moment he now occupied, Megatron made a decision, not caring whether Sunstorm and his god approved. It was _his_ mecha that would be in danger and he was not as callous as some might describe him. “They will not go alone, however. I ask for volunteers from among my soldiers. Another eight to accompany them. To guard against the encroaching of the foul creatures that linger outside our walls. Skywarp just this very afternoon brought back word that the Autobot Tasked will go outside their wall with none but themselves. Let only the Autobots be so foolish as to send their Tasked out alone. Step forward, I challenge you to this as your leader.”  
  
First to step forward was a large, dark mech. A bulky tank alt mode and one of Megatron’s finest field commanders. “I offer my strength to the quest, Lord Megatron,” Turmoil said, saluting his leader and the eight now very much ranked above him. “My pledge awaits acceptance from he who will have me.”  
  
A shifting among the Seekers drew Megatron’s attention and he watched with an arched optic ridge as the spindly little mech that was Vos stepped forward and curled a thin hand around Turmoil’s forearm. From behind his silvered mask, Primal Vernacular spilled out in harsh syllables, claiming the tank as guardian. A soft titter from Kaon earned a quick glare from his teammate—Vos’ attraction to tanks was well-known and earned him much amusement from his teammates—but the deed was done. Others began to toss their names into contention, some being turned away by the remaining Seekers, but not stopping until each had laid hand on a guardian of their own.  
  
Shutting down the murmurs of the crowd again with a flash of his optics, Megatron raised his voice to be heard clearly at the back. “Face me, Seekers and Guardians,” he commanded. Like the well-oiled army they were, all sixteen mecha turned on their heels, optics focused on their leader. Megatron huffed a proud laugh deep in his chassis. “Come the dawn, you leave the city wall for however long it takes. There will be no pomp to send you off beyond what happens here tonight. Consider your honor in being Chosen no greater than any other duty put upon you as a Decepticon.”  
  
Not even Misfire bungled his way into a disruption. Megatron watched him carefully, knowing the purple flyer tended to stick his pede in it entirely without meaning to more often than not. Beside him, Ravage and Deathsaurus both maintained the determined stances of elite soldiers, perhaps the most diligent of all among the Seekers. All of them, though, held qualities that set them above the rabble. They attained their positions through their own merits, after all, whether Megatron actually liked them or not.  
  
Shifting his gaze over the crowd again, Megatron took in the curious faces of his warriors, catching the anxious shuffle here and there among them. He narrowed his optics and raised a hand. All movement stilled, all intent on Megatron like petrohawks on the hunt. Megatron held them silent and watching for what felt like a full klik before he took pity on them. “Decepticons, tonight we venerate our Seekers and their assured victory. Let the Feast of Leaving begin!”  
  
A rowdy and jovial roar rang out through the chamber as Megatron resumed his seat, sprawling inelegantly. The mecha in front of him mingled and parted and swarmed like insecticons, allowing for long tables and benches to be dragged into place. Heavy kegs were rolled in and hefted onto them by some of his larger bruisers, the sweetly glowing engex tapped and flowing moments later. Deep bowls of energon gels and dishes rarely seen anymore thumped down on the tables, carried from the kitchens by forewarned cooks. Greedy hands reached for tidbits before the clangs of settling dishes had even fallen away. The musically inclined among them brought out instruments and vocalizers warbled out with the words of songs normally reserved for lesser venues. Megatron nodded his eight and their guardians toward the festivities as curious optics ventured glances over shoulders.  
  
“Go,” he told them. “This is for you. Enjoy it. Complete your Task and you will all return to something far more grand.”  
  
The reactions were as expected. Some joined the party with intent to simply be with their fellow Decepticons while they still could, to be with those they likely called friends. Others, though, were somewhat more impressive to Megatron’s watchful optic.  
  
Among the flyers, Misfire and Skywarp dragged their guardians off to obtain a level of drunkenness that would not leave them truly sober until perhaps an orn or two after they had left the city. Starscream turned up his nose and sneaked a mug and few handfuls of candies when he figured none looked his way.  
  
Elsewhere, Ravage curled around Soundwave, intent on spending the last of his time in Kaon with the host mech. Megatron would be surprised if they did not leave the chamber well before any of the others, meeting up with the rest of the small symbiotes. In the same vein, there was Deathsaurus, who joined his mate at the end of a table with others of their command. They spent the night as something closely approximating a family. Very few in his army knew what it was to be such, anymore. Knowing they would soon be separated kept Megatron’s envy soundly dampened.  


* * *

  
Night was come on in full over Iacon again. The air held a much different tone than it had the previous night, however, before his carefully constructed plans were tossed aside by the whim of something unknown speaking through a supposedly holy relic. Prowl stood alone atop the Iacon Wall, staring out over the untouched darkness outside the structure. Come the morning, he and seven others would find themselves out there, searching for things even Drift and Wing could not say were real and tangible items. When not even the most staunch spiritualists Prowl was acquainted with could attest an unwavering belief in what they were about to do, he could only worry over how very wrong things might go.  
  
A crunch on the ground behind him sent his door wings standing to attention and he turned away from the low wall that lined the side of the walk. Haloed by the light of the city, the Prime waited for Prowl to acknowledge him. “Optimus,” Prowl greeted with a sigh, turning back to watch the shadows. A flicker of movement in the shadows at the base of the wall caught his optic. He leaned forward to peek a little closer. “It’s late.”  
  
“Yes, it is,” Optimus said, coming up to stand beside him, gaze also turned outward. “I’m not the one that will be heading into the wilds, though, in a matter of joors.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” Prowl said, his door wings twitching a brief dance of agitation before he managed to still them. “I, among others that should not be leaving Iacon, will be doing that. Apparently, a supernatural being neither of us truly believes in has very different plans than you and I agreed to.”  
  
“If I could change the names I spoke, I would,” Optimus said, stepping closer to the barrier beside Prowl. It came no higher than halfway up his thigh, his height that much greater than Prowl’s. “All of you are capable. I do admit my deepest regret being that First Aid will be without his creators for however long this might take. I’ve already spoken to them regarding it, though I don’t believe any of us came away from the discussion any happier.”  
  
Face twisting into a despairing frown, Prowl slumped. Hands rested on top of the barrier wall, he leaned into it and focused his optics hard onto a turbofox that sniffed around the base of the wall—the source of the earlier movement, he surmised. It did not look to be one of the mutated creatures, the Things as so many called them, but it did not appear well, either. One ragged audial and exposed optic mechanics, the tail stripped of its wild fluff of sharp plating. If this mechanimal was not turned, it was likely well on its way.  
  
“And Streetwise?” Prowl eventually managed to ask, pulling his gaze away from the turbofox and door wings flicking the smallest touch of anger. He kept his field tightly reined, not wanting Optimus to know the full depth of his unhappiness with the situation. Optimus carried more than enough weight without shouldering this, as well. “Need I remind you again he’s still considered a mechling? A full half vorn remains before he reaches legal adult status.”  
  
Silence stretched between them, far enough away from the bubbling activity of the night time city to be graced with no more than a distant warble of extraneous sound. When Optimus finally replied, Prowl was not entirely sure how to react. “You’ll have plenty of time with him out there.”  
  
He could feel tension throughout his frame, wires and lines drawing tight in anticipation of… _something_. His hands clutched hard at the top of the dust-encrusted metal under them. Prowl had no doubt where Optimus intended to lead with this and decided to put a stop to it before it even started. “No more than I will with any of the bots heading out. And no, I do not intend to tell him.”  
  
It was a firm denial, like many previous. Of course, Optimus would never give up, being who he was. Even before his Primehood, as Orion Pax, he had always sought the happy ending, fought for it. “You know I have to prod at least once in a great while, right?”  
  
Prowl snorted and shook his helm, not nearly as amused as he knew Optimus hoped he would be. “That doesn’t make it any less difficult to hear, sir.” Maybe a touch of formality might shock his leader just enough to realize how hard he was stepping, Prowl thought. “If you’ll excuse me now, though. I should attempt to get some rest before it’s time.”  
  
“Please do,” Optimus replied, turning to face him. His deep voice rumbled with the depth of his sorrow, his field coiled and ready to lash out at himself. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Prowl. A Prime I may be, but I’m also just a mech.”  
  
The discussion was taking them nowhere fast. There were plenty of things Prowl refused to share with others, so it was not as if refraining from speaking to Streetwise about certain truths stood as some sort of outlier. “I know that,” he started, finally meeting Optimus optic to optic, “but I—we can’t risk a weakness like—”  
  
A loud _zap!_ , a blinding flash of pale blue light, and a wailing shriek set both staring at the air right above Prowl on the outside safety barrier of the wall. A smear of congealing energon fizzled against the lit portion of the forcefield. Set in place only a couple vorns ago, the forcefield proved itself time and again necessary to the protection of the city. It was not just the ground based mechanimals that were turned into unholy creatures. His spark pulsing hard and fast from the sudden shock of the thwarted attack, Prowl leaned out to look down on the partially incinerated frame of the mechabird. Switching on the powerful light situated at the front of his helm crest, Prowl lit up the scene to get a better view.  
  
Nothing about the creature much resembled what it must have been before—and it was not a matter of having taken the blow against the charge of the forcefield. In comparison to the drooling turbofox, which seemed unfazed by the sudden light as it nosed at the downed creature, the creature made little anatomical sense. It would be collected like they always were, whatever remained of it after the turbofox was done, and further research conducted on the deactivated frame.  
  
He shared a glance with Optimus. As he opened his mouth to speak, another shriek shattered the air and a second creature slammed into the forcefield, nearly right on top of where the other had hit. Prowl ducked away from the wall on instinct, a hand clutching over his chassis, above his twice-startled spark. Beside him, even Optimus dropped low in reaction to the appearance of the Thing. Had the field not been there, sharp talons would have ripped into Prowl’s helm, he knew. Instead, it lay in a smoking heap next to the first twisted mechabird outside the wall, much to the delight of the snuffling turbofox.  
  
“They’re growing fiercer every day.”  
  
Prowl and Optimus both turned to the new speaker. A green mech, bulky and strong, Springer was a common sight among the patrol that walked the wall. Bearer of two alt modes, the mech held an advantage in the position that others lacked. He squinted in the light off Prowl’s helm, holding a hand up to block some of it. Prowl quickly clicked it off and nodded greeting to the younger officer. “So the reports say,” Prowl responded. “Perceptor and Pharma concluded many of the creatures are expanding their population through breeding, as well. These aren’t just mechanimals that have been changed by whatever it is, anymore.”  
  
A shriek and longer _zap!_ than either of the two before sounded out right behind Prowl, who did his very best not to flinch. Beyond his control, though, his door wings arched upward in a defense display. He peered over his shoulder at the third smear on the forcefield, watching tainted energon bubble and smolder away to nothing.  
  
“It appears they don’t like you, sir,” Springer said, moving around Prowl to nudge at a curling metal feather that clung to the forcefield by way of the energon. The field would not harm any being that did not bear the taint, much to the relief of the city’s flight capable bots, allowing them through the protective barrier at will when the need for flight took them. Springer plucked the feather loose of the energon, careful not to touch the cooling fluid—no one was entirely certain how much it would take to taint a mech to the point of dangerous, but Prowl was glad to see Springer not risking it. The feather disappeared into a containment box pulled from one of Springer’s compartments. His optics shifted toward Optimus before speaking again, his tone gone accusing. “Makes me wish I was going along, for extra protection.”  
  
“Springer, you were not cut from the list for any reason beyond, apparently, the will of Primus,” Prowl objected, stepping between the green mech and Optimus. He knew the argument from Springer’s side, after all—he could make the mech stand down faster than Optimus. “No different from how _I_ ended up _on_ the list.”  
  
It was obvious from the look Springer gave him that Primus did not hold a high priority in his life, either. “What about the fact that two of the mecha Tasked don't have any experience outside the wall? What happens when they find themselves in the middle of their first battle against the Things without it between them?”  
  
“Don't you think I’ve already considered that?” Prowl asked, hating the way his door wings drooped. “Or Optimus? We _know_ what's wrong with it all, both of us. _All_ of us.” He stared hard at the sizzling energon smears. The problem with playing the other side of the argument meant he forced himself to see it just as bluntly, to see the things he did not want to see even if he already knew them for what they were. “But, tell me, Springer. Do we go against what’s been spoken freely before the people? Do we risk what they might do if we’re seen going against Primus?”  
  
Springer frowned and gave them both an unrelenting look. He was not at all pleased. “Fine. I still don’t like it.”  
  
“Understood,” Optimus said, a short nod accompanying the word. “Your misgivings are heard and seconded by myself.” The flex of his hand and the aborted movement of his arm showed compliance with the standoffish swirl of Springer’s field. “I appreciate your forthrightness. It’s a difficult thing for someone in my position to find in others.”  
  
With a shrug, Springer hefted the rail gun slung over his back up to his shoulder and aimed into the dark night outside the wall. A burst of electrical charge and the crack of the dispersed projectile as he pulled the trigger followed by another shriek far away from the protective barrier of the city signaled the felling of a fourth winged creature. “I don’t do the favor-seeking noble thing, sir.” He lowered the rifle and vented out sharply. His glare was quickly turned on Prowl, then. “Bluestreak is my best sharpshooter, but he’s never gone outside. Bring him back in one piece or we’ll be having words, Prowl.”  
  
“I fully expect them should I fail to bring any of them back whole,” Prowl told him.  
  
Springer swept another, sharper look over both Prime and Second, then continued on his way. Someone had to keep up patrols, after all. “Include yourself in that,” Springer called back without bothering to look their way again. “I have it on good authority some people actually like you.”  
  
A small curve touched Prowl’s mouth, though it did not last long. He glanced at Optimus. “I’ll see you in the morning.”  
  
Optimus nodded, everything about him gone downright glum. “Rest well, Prowl. They will need you at your best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how about them Decepticons? Also, this is seriously toned down from how pretentious it was in the rough, especially the dialogue. XD


	5. Chapter Four

Night came to an end as the sun breached the horizon, lighting up the sky in hues ranging from deep orange to something almost white. The rising of the day star was, without doubt, the most serene part of that particular dawn. Morning in Iacon was never a quiet affair, but the bustle and rush that surrounded Barricade outdid everything he had seen since before the changes began. He remembered those days, if only barely—as a small mechling at the time, his memories were admittedly sparse.  
  
Bots of all frames types and sizes passed by him as they swept through the open communal space near the main gate of the Iacon Wall, a mixture of those there to help and those there merely to see them off. Barricade would have much preferred a lack of the latter variety.  
  
While waiting for the higher ups to get the show on the road, he ran a check over his weapons and internal systems. He had a recent appraisal by the medical team under his accessory belt, but one learned to keep an optic on themselves when they worked outside the wall. Members of the Autobot provisions squad interrupted now and then to hand him packages of supplies as they ran through the crowd. He accepted without a word, stashing each away in various compartments and subspace pockets. They would only last for a few decaorns if stretched to their uppermost limit, but it was better than having nothing at all, he supposed.  
  
In the mill of the crowd, he could make out the others, just as pressed by the bots around them, more prepared supply packets shoved into their hands. None of them appeared entirely ready for the what awaited them and he could not rightly blame them. Other than himself, only the lovebots and Blurr had spent any time outside in recent vorns. That amounted to half their number, but when measured against the things they would be facing, it was not nearly good enough. Seeing Blurr steadier on his pedes than yesterorn offered some small reassurance, at least.  
  
A tiny spindle of a scientist came his way, stopping to explain the workings of what was apparently a portable filtration device. Barricade grunted and instead refocused on his weapons check—he would figure out how to work the thing on the road. Lifting his right arm, he fisted his hand and flexed the tensor cables, triggering the quick release of the blade mounted in his forearm. The little scientist startled and stared at the gleaming sword as if expecting it to slice through her. Barricade snorted and retracted the blade. The release was a touch slow, wanting a small bit of maintenance to fix it. The matching blade on the left likely suffered the same dust clogging the gears. He flagged a note to attend to it the moment it became a viable option of what to do with his time.  
  
“Hey, mech, take it easy on the help, why don’t ya?”  
  
Turning a dim look on the speaker, Barricade gazed down on the shorter Jazz, watching as he set down a fully loaded rucksack beside his pedes. Much as Barricade wished he could claim himself the most dangerous mech on the team, he knew it belonged to this mech that stood idly beside him. The scientist took her cue to pass over the filtration device and hurry along to the next bot on her list.  
  
“Jazz,” Barricade greeted his newest visitor, engine rumbling low in his chassis. Not that the mech would take the warning. Jazz was very good at saying whatever he wanted if he thought it needed to be said, no matter how uninterested the receiving party. “Ready for the family vacation?”  
  
Jazz shifted, one hip cocked to the side and arms crossing under his bumper. He offered Barricade a knowing smile, optics hidden behind his visor. “You know, I think I am, actually. I don’t know about anyone else, but we’ll be all right. You, on the other hand,” Jazz’s tone darkened, the hue of his visor deepening with it, “had best keep your vocalizer muted, if you understand me?”  
  
Rolling his optics, Barricade began the process of storing away the growing pile of supplies being left at his pedes by service grunts once his attention was taken by Jazz. His mouth twisted as he got in Jazz’s face, shoving the filtration device into a subspace pocket. “Don’t worry, sir. Your sparkling won’t hear slag from me. I don’t get involved in anyone else’s family drama.”  
  
“What about your own family?” Jazz asked, sounding honestly curious, helm tilting to one side.  
  
“Even less likely, then,” Barricade told him, finding places for other items deemed necessary by the powers that be for the journey. Most of the pile would have to be shoved into his own rucksack, he realized in annoyance. “Haven’t seen them since I left Altihex during the last family blow up, so it doesn’t really matter either way now.”  
  
Jazz was quiet for a few moments. “Nah, I guess it doesn’t.” Then he reached out and slapped a palm against Barricade’s shoulder, black hand blending with the heavy matte charcoal of the kibble—a high polish finish was a wasteful vanity in the face of unending dust in Barricade’s opinion. “Quick heads up. The Power of Iacon has arrived and means to see the lot of us out the gate. Be prepared to wash off the annointin’ gunk once we’re outta the city.”  
  
The smaller mech only laughed when Barricade groaned and pulled a face of utter disgust. “I hate that guy.” A three-toned whistle sounded across the yard, signaling that the time had arrived for the Tasked to officially begin their quest. Barricade sobered and looked to Jazz. “You believe the things we’re after actually exist? That they have divinely imbued powers?”  
  
Shrugging, Jazz helped him gather up the last bits of supplies into his rucksack—all of them would carry one, the supply team not about to let them leave without being loaded far too deeply with items to hold them all internally. “Don’t know,” Jazz said, reaching for his own sack and pulling the straps over his shoulders. “If it gives Perceptor and the rest of the science bots the time they need to find an answer without a bunch of interruptions, don’t care, either.”  
  
Barricade considered the words, then grunted. “Reasonable. Hope we don’t die out there. I’d like to see Cybertron the way it should be again.”  
  
“That’d be nice,” Jazz murmured, just loud enough for Barricade to make it out over the milling crowd that gathered in closer still with the sounding of the whistle. “I’d gladly go to my deactivation, though, if it helped the world get there.”  
  
Barricade did not respond to that, buckling the chest strap of his rucksack into place. He was not sure he agreed with the sentiment.  
  


* * *

  
On occasion, it hit Drift how very much he and his life had changed in so very short a time. Just the night before, he had spent time trying to regain some of his old self, to prepare for the leave taking. Rather than some vague shadow of Deadlock, Drift instead clung tight to First Aid, fully acknowledging that his attempt had failed miserably.  
  
Wing stood close, one hand rubbing a soothing path along Drift’s back. His field curled gently around Drift and First Aid, his helm rested against First Aid’s little shoulder. Neither Drift nor Wing were ready for this—a single night was not enough. The whims of chance proclaimed First Aid might very well never see either of them again. Even the best case scenario promised to be too long a time separated from his little mechling, as far as Drift was concerned. It was no simple task to search the whole of Cybertron with no more than a couple handfuls of mecha for items long gone missing.  
  
When Drift finally found it in himself to pull back and meet his creation’s optics, First Aid’s expression crumpled and his hands came up to poke at the distressed frown on his carrier’s face. Drift fought to rein it in, to turn it into a smile, however difficult, for his mechling. “Carrier,” First Aid said, patting at his carrier’s cheeks, “why are you sad?”  
  
“Because I’m not sure when I’ll see you again,” Drift answered truthfully. “Do you remember the talk we had last night?”  
  
“I do,” First Aid said with a nod, his expression gone solemn. “It’s time for you and sire to go now, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, it is,” Drift told his creation, nodding in return as his hand stroked over the boxy shape of First Aid’s small helm, “but you’ll be with Ratchet and the twins while we’re gone.”  
  
“I like Ratchet and the twins,” First Aid said, reassuring him. “I’ll be very good.” He paused, then tilted his helm, giving Drift a curious optic. “Will you and Sire be very good, too?”  
  
Sharing a look with Wing, Drift found a smile and nodded again. “Yes, Aid. Sire and I will be very good.”  
  
Pressing his lips to First Aid’s audial briefly, Wing added with a quiet voice, “And we’ll be home as soon as we can. We won’t forget about you, don’t worry about that.” His helm fins fluttered, the spires of his shoulder kibble shifting through a pattern of meaning Drift only vaguely understood. Wing had explained it bore some similarity to the wing cant used by other flier frames, but that was as far as Drift had managed to get. First Aid, on the other hand, had learned very well, having seen it since his first moments. He watched the display with rapt attention, smiling the tiniest bit when his sire said, “No sticky prints all over Ratchet’s hab, all right, kiddo? Remember to wash your hands and face.”  
  
“Yes, Sire,” First Aid responded dutifully, snuggling a touch closer to both of his creators. The normally vibrant and happy fluff of his field had gone low and restrained. Whether First Aid really comprehended the entirety of what was going on or not did not matter—he fully understood his creators were about to leave without him, go somewhere he could not go. Drift did not think his spark could flicker any worse, then First Aid’s voice came out of the little bundle he had made of himself in Drift’s arms. His field teeked of a sadness so deep that Drift instinctively knew a youngling should never have to feel such a thing. “I’m going to miss you, Carrier. Both of you.”  
  
The three-toned whistle sounded over the yard, signaling the time was on them. Lifting his helm to look around them, Drift frowned as he held his mechling as close as he could without causing squirming. “Wing, do you see Ratchet?”  
  
“Over there, by the stands with Optimus,” Wing replied, pointing Drift’s attention in the right direction with a nod. “He’s got the twins with him, too, it looks like.”  
  
He glanced toward where Ratchet waited patiently with their leader, ready to take their creation—the medic had easily been chosen as a surrogate caretaker by both Drift and Wing even before First Aid’s emergence. His skill with the twins, yellow and red bundles cradled in his arms, proved their choice the correct one. Drift sighed and drooped, audial fins held low. He shifted First Aid into a more comfortable hold at his hip and steeled himself for the coming hand off. Not so very long ago, Drift would never have thought himself capable of such delicate emotions. As Deadlock, everything had been hard and brutal, only beginning to change under the onslaught of Wing’s dedicated wooing. “I suppose we should go meet him, then.”  
  
“Yes,” Wing agreed. He was trying to maintain a strong front, but Drift could feel the wobble in his spark through their bond. Wing was no better off right then than Drift himself. “Best not to draw it out too long and find ourselves drawing reprimand from Prowl before we’ve even left the city.”  
  
First Aid never even uncurled from his secure place against Drift’s warmth, his small hands clinging to plating in a fashion more often observed in sparklings the age of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker or younger. Their rucksacks stuffed with extra gear were lugged along by Wing and the crowd parted as they made their way toward the platform. Hopeful words for a successful journey were lobbed their way from all quarters. A few hands reaching out to brush fingertips over their plating, as if seeking to share even the smallest portion of their perceived blessedness. Drift did not feel it, but that did not mean it did not exist.  
  
“There you are,” Ratchet said as he caught sight of their approach, passing off a wiggling and squeaking Sideswipe to Wheeljack. Sunstreaker merely lounged against his shoulder, optics barely open with the force of an incoming nap working on him.  
  
“Jack!” Sideswipe exclaimed, reaching out to pat at the flashing sensors on the inventor’s helm. He leaned close to press his mouth to one side and vented out, vibrating his lips against the surface with sloppy sparkling glee.  
  
Ratchet hid an indulgent smile from the sparkling behind a roll of his optics before turning back to Drift and Wing. “I was afraid I was going to have to track you down. And in this chaos? Not something I would have appreciated you forcing me to do.”  
  
The difficulty of finding words at that moment rose to heights Drift did not think he had ever been exposed to before in his life. Even in the face of death—an opponent he had stared down more than once—Drift had known more words than was rightly good for him. He rested into the arm that wrapped around him, snugging him close against Wing’s frame. Ratchet said nothing more, wearing a look of understanding patience. It was not something Drift saw from him often, mostly due to his own continual needling of the medic just for the fun of riling him.  
  
Another presence made itself known at his other side, the familiar field of fire and excitement wrapping comfort and curious friendship around him. He looked over at Hot Rod when a hand touched gently on his arm. “Hey, Roddy,” he said quietly. “Here for the big send off, huh?”  
  
Hot Rod shrugged, the younger mech giving him a desolate smile. “Hey, I was on the list Prowl made,” he said. “It should be me going, not you or Wing. The least I can do is be here to see you guys out the gate.” Pausing, Hot Rod placed a yellow hand on First Aid’s still tucked helm. “And I’ll help with the little guy, too. I’ll teach him all the bad things Ratchet won’t while you’re off adventuring in the wilds.”  
  
While Ratchet harrumphed at the thought and Wing nodded in approval, Drift discovered he did have one last smile in him. It was heavy with impending loss, but it reached far enough to crinkle in the corners of his optics. “Thank you, Rod,” he said, tilting his helm to bump against Hot Rod’s. “That means a lot.”  
  
“All good, I hope?” Hot Rod asked with a grin, though it was a bit forced, and waggle of his optic ridges. The mech was a terrible flirt, honestly—Drift had told him more than once he was lucky Wing was not the possessive sort. Of course, Hot Rod had merely shrugged and gotten even more flagrantly friendly. Then, rather unexpectedly, Hot Rod’s expression grew serious and his voice dipped into a somewhat lower register with the weight of the situation. “Look, we all know this shouldn’t be happening, but it is. That means while Ratchet and I have an extended playtime with Aid, you two—” he threw a glance over to include Wing, “—find the stuff and get your afts back here, fast as you can. No funny business that makes that not happen, got me?”  
  
“He’s right, much as I don’t want to admit it,” Ratchet added as the tri-tone again signaled the Tasked to gather, coming closer and opening his free arm to accept the young mechling tucked so very tightly against his carrier. “Come on, First Aid,” he coaxed in a gentle tone he reserved only for the youngest bots. “Your creators have to leave soon. Let’s say our farewells and go somewhere we can watch, even outside the wall.”  
  
First Aid lifted his helm, not yet ready to give up his hold on his carrier, and looked toward Ratchet with big, sad optics. “Outside the wall?”  
  
Turning him and pointing toward the top of the Wall of Iacon, Drift directed his creation’s optics to the section of wall just over the gate. Atop that section of the wall was one of the gatehouses, sheathed in the same rust orange that lined much of the command center complex. “See the little house?” Drift asked, waiting for a nod. “Ratchet and Hot Rod will take you up there and you can watch from the windows for as long as you want.”  
  
“Carrier and I will even wave to you from the other side,” Wing promised, stroking the knuckles of one hand along the soft line of First Aid’s jaw.  
  
Distress seeped into First Aid’s immature field and he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth to keep from voicing his worries again. His entire young life had been filled with warnings to never leave the city. While he had not expressed fears regarding the length of time his creators might be away, he had focused quite expertly on relaying everything he had been told regarding the dangers of going Outside the Wall. Being reminded of the danger his creators were going into, First Aid wrapped all of his limbs around his carrier tighter still. “Please be safe,” First Aid whispered, almost too quiet for Drift to make out. “Please come back soon.”  
  
“We'll do our best, bitlet,” Drift said, giving him one last nuzzle as his spark fractured inside its casing. “Now, go to Ratchet and teach him all about auras while Sire and I are gone, all right?”  
  
That got Drift the giggle he was after, small and sniffly though it was, as well as a glare from Ratchet. He handed First Aid over, not surprised when Hot Rod swooped in snagged a fussing Sunstreaker from Ratchet before even asked by medic. They did not get along so well as Drift might wish for two of his closest friends, but they did not treat one another so badly as to be hopeless. While Sunstreaker fussed a bit before snuggling into the natural warmth that permeated every bit of Hot Rod, First Aid accepted his new place in Ratchet’s arms, tucking his helm under that strong jaw. His optics remained focused on Drift and Wing the entire time.  
  
Spark whirling up a storm, Drift sucked in a deep breath of the dusty air and stepped closer to Ratchet. Before the medic could object, he wrapped his arms around Ratchet and First Aid. “Thank you, Ratchet,” he said, every bit of him pushing the depth of his feeling into the words. Then, he dropped a last kiss on his creation’s helm. “Be good, Aid. Be good and Sire and I’ll be back as soon as we can.”  
  
First Aid only nodded into the hold, his words missing and his optics wet. A few more nano-kliks, then Drift pulled himself away, snagging the second rucksack that Wing wore slung over his shoulder. He pulled it on while forcing himself to head toward the other Tasked gathering before the closed gate. He could not stay and listen to Wing’s farewell, knowing it would only make his own leaving all the more difficult. It already left his spark turning cold. As he walked past Wheeljack, Sideswipe babbled in half-formed Neocybex. Drift allowed himself a glance as Sideswipe curled and uncurled his tiny fingers in a wave. “Dif!”  
  
Letting a small smile curve his mouth, Drift gave the little red sparkling a wink, then moved onward. He managed to pull himself out of the deep slump that threatened to overtake his frame by the time he walked up beside Bluestreak. The young sharpshooter gave him a greeting wag of those Praxian door wings and an overly bright grin. He teeked hard of nervous energy and a strong underpinning of fear, though he held himself tall and ready. “Hey, Drift. Ready to go?”  
  
A nod was the best Drift could find for the young mech, missing his words, much like First Aid. Fortunately, Bluestreak understood the tight whirl of emotion storming through Drift’s chassis and prodded no further. He relaxed some as Wing came close, shoulder kibble brushing against Drift’s own. A peek showed the same misgivings Drift felt displayed across those beloved features, but Primus and the Hand called them. They could turn away from the Tasking no more than they could allow their own hands to bring harm upon their creation.  
  
Before anything more could be exchanged with any of the bots around him, Drift’s attention was taken by the narrow framed mech that stepped forward in front of the Tasked. He stood between them and the gate, a regal cloak of heavy red mesh draped over his thin shoulders, exaggerating the broad width of the sleek plating. Metalhawk was a mess of gold, blue, and red, but commanded the optic, nonetheless for his fetching flyer frametype. As the highest ranking Power in Iacon, Metalhawk was also the mech bestowing upon the Tasked their holy Anointing. Dedicated to Primus, Metalhawk lead the temple in the city. Standing off to one side, were the four Powers ranked just below him, representing the rest of the Guiding Hand. The touch of Wing’s hand low on his back settled the aching spikes of turmoil in Drift’s mind and spark, allowing him to focus on the words of Metalhawk.  
  
“People of Iacon, creations of Primus, all of us, today we gather in the great optimism that is hope. The Guiding Hand has offered us an answer and bestowed upon us a holy quest. These eight mecha in our midst have been Chosen and a Task given to them by the words of Primus through our Prime,” Metalhawk said, addressing the gathered bots rather than Drift and his fellows right then. His blue optics glowed with a fervor that touched something in Drift’s own spark. While his personal practice did not align with the temple’s, Drift would admit their highest Power spoke with a sincerity and strength that well-suited his station. “It is with greatest honor that _I_ give unto them further blessing, small though it may be in comparison to the will of Primus, himself.”  
  
A few steps away from Drift, ahead of himself and Wing, the nervous shifting of Streetwise distracted him. The youngest of their group held himself bravely, but still fidgeted with the same anxiousness that targeted Bluestreak. Though he never physically reached out to offer any soothing touch to his creation, Jazz certainly left only the barest amount of space between himself and Streetwise. It occurred to Drift, watching them, that he would at least not have this to contend with. First Aid would be safe behind a city wall with many able protectors while Streetwise ventured into the open wild with his carrier.  
  
“Step forward, Chosen,” Metalhawk announced, drawing Drift back out of his thoughts, “and receive your blessing from the Iacon Temple.”  
  


* * *

  
As the face of the Tasked, Prowl stepped forward first to get the traditional smear of grease down each of his cheeks, centered under each optic. Of all the Chosen, though, Blurr held the most extensive experience outside the wall. Perhaps the only mech in all of Iacon to hold such a lengthy count of joors in the wild, ranging from one pole to the other, if he were to be honest. That experience, despite most of it being undertaken at a rate of speed few could even dream to reach, put him in an important position within the group.  
  
Watching from the back of the procession, Blurr tried to listen but could not find it in him to really care, though he did note Metalhawk passing a data slug into Prowl’s hand before waving the Autobot Second onward. His energy levels still read less than sixty-five percent on his HUD after two nights of rest and refueling. Ratchet, a joor before the break of dawn when all the Tasked had woken to begin final preparations, let him and Optimus know how very not pleased he was with this. At least Blurr was not literally wobbling on his pedes, anymore. That had been the only upside he had to counter Ratchet while Optimus simply allowed Ratchet’s ensuing burst of angry ranting to happen. _Everyone_ knew not to get in the way of that. Blurr had been Chosen, though, and he was not about to turn his back on duty.  
  
As he neared the Power, Blurr took note of the bots near the gate. He greeted the scrutiny of Optimus Prime and his new acting Second and Third with a tired smile and half-sparked salute. Ironhide and Ultra Magnus would be good for Iacon, he knew. Ahead of him, Metalhawk worked his way through the others. One of the other Powers—Blurr did not know her name, uninterested in the spiritualism that permeated so many citizens of Cybertron—had stepped forward with the holy oil, the thickened liquid filling a small copper bowl. When his turn before the High Power came, Blurr nodded greeting to the elder bot. While not a nonbeliever, he saw no reason to bow before a mech simply because they claimed higher position in the sight of Primus.  
  
“Blurr of Iacon,” Metalhawk intoned, his expression grave and tone deep with intention, “you have been Tasked by the Guiding Hand, through the voice of Primus.” He dipped a thumb already stained with glimmering gold-brown remnants into the bowl of grease. Blurr lifted his chin, giving the taller priest better access to his face. The grease-loaded thumb smeared a streak down Blurr’s right cheek. “May the Hand guide your way.” Then, a matching smear was stroked down his left cheek, from just under his optic to the line of his jaw. “And bring you back to us, whole and hale.”  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Blurr said, polite enough to know it behooved him to behave better than Barricade—who not so covertly was already wiping the grease from his face with the back of a hand, scowling at the resultant mess. It was difficult not to laugh at him and the optic roll Prowl gave the other former Enforcer. “I fully intend to do both.”  
  
Metalhawk’s optics cycled brighter with a flash of humor. He laid his clean hand on Blurr’s shoulder and gave a small squeeze. “See to it.”  
  
Allowing himself to be turned toward the gate, Blurr took a moment to be grateful that the Anointing had been less of a show than it could have been. He made a weary shuffle after the rest of his new troop, shifting the heavy weight of his rucksack unhappily, and sighed as he gazed up the height of the gate. It was one of four, though by far the most ornate, being the main gate of the city, and gleamed dully under the combined sun and eternal coating of oxide dust. None of the gates were kept open, not anymore. Traffic from outside was exceedingly rare in these days and never more than a handful of bots at any one time. The smaller doors built into them were often more than sufficient. For this, though, the show was to be made of releasing the Tasked into the outside world with wide open hope, a symbolic repetition of Metalhawk’s words.  
  
“Open the gate!” called Prowl from the head of the pack. A loud, resounding click and a hiss hailed the start of the process. It was slower than it should have been, the result of such little use. Maintenance would get on that right away, Blurr hoped, watching as the broad halves of the gate pulled back into the pockets built into the gatehouse. He heard Barricade mutter to himself about the dust clogging everything up and could not help but agree. Prowl turned around to look them all over, stretching his door wings out flat then back, creating little eddies in that ever present dust. “All right, everybody. Let’s get out of here.”  
  
“Bye, Pow!” a tiny voice called out over the hush of the crowd. “Bye!”  
  
Blurr blinked his optics and peered back over his shoulder. Stretching as high as he could over the top of Wheeljack’s helm, a tiny red sparkling waved both hands in the air, fingers curling over and over again. Wheeljack, Hot Rod, and Ratchet had worked their way closer to the gate, though Ratchet and Hot Rod continued up into the gatehouse with First Aid and a cranky Sunstreaker. A soft chuckle and a shake of his helm later, Blurr looked forward and caught Prowl smiling back at little Sideswipe, giving him farewell wave and waggle of door wings.  
  
The smile vanished, though, as they walked through the open gate. Springer stood to one side, part of the guard team that stood in salute to either side, the triple-changer’s expression tight and unhappy. Prowl offered Springer a curt nod, receiving one in kind. Before Blurr could even begin to decipher what that meant, they were off and into the wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be edited and posted a few weeks ago, but I ended up getting nasty sick and have only just managed to get this ready to go now. Hopefully, it won't take nearly so long to get the next chapter ready. :)
> 
>  **NEXT TIME:** The action picks up as our heroes venture into the open wildlands with no protection beyond their own skills. Also, the enemy's reach grows.


End file.
